Flashback
by Cassandra or Bonkers pehaps
Summary: A flashback to a time when Irina was pretending to be Laura, before her and Jack had Sydney, and her feelings began to change...Read and REVEIW. All critique welcome


The distinctive aura of death shrouded the room like a dark cloud, surrounding it like a pestilence, a plague that could not be made to go away. It was the silent aftermath, a chilling sound of nothingness that can shake the bravest of men to the very core. There was the smell of blood that accompanied it, slight and metallic, somewhere in the void between stench and fragrance.

It would not take one long to locate the source of the thick red liquid, the feeling of darkness and despair. A corpse lay motionless on the cold steel floor, face down in a pool of his own blood. Cold brown eyes, just slightly flecked with shades of yellow and green, fixed on it, unmoving, devoid of all emotion. It had been simple, a sharpened knife slashed across the throat: one quick, clean movement was all it took. Blood came pouring out and she conveniently stepped out of the way, not wanting to sully her new coat. The blade had cut a semi-circle through his bare skin, through jugular vein and artery, straight through the windpipe, vertebrae just beyond its reach.

A small squeak, not even a cough; A gurgle of blood, the last breath of oxygen escaping the lungs, and he was death, body falling to the floor as if in slow motion. She watched it all with the detached eye of a professional, seemingly neither bothered nor particularly pleased. She watched him now, allowing herself this respite, though common sense told her to leave the scene. The weapon was left, abandoned on the floor, any trace of her fingerprints deftly wiped off.

Her eyes remained on the victim, never wavering, always steady. He was nothing now, nothing but a corpse on the ground, weak. They all were, in the end. Irina knew she had no morals to speak of, and the fact did not bother her. Morals were simply obstacles, empty words based on emptier thoughts and the backward religions of old. There was no religion, no right or wrong; Anything was worth it, in the service of your country, the mother that nurtured you from childhood to old age. How many times had she been told that? Long ago she lost track.

Finally she pulled her gaze away, coolly giving the body one last glance before stepping over it and walking out of the room, heels clicking softly against the ground. She made her way out of the warehouse, away from the silent streets, back into the illusion that was her life. Like a well-versed shadow returning to the light, she made her way to the well lit streets, illuminated even in the dark of night by imposing black streetlights. The concrete slabs were even here, the sidewalks clean, minus the occasional gum or wrapper carelessly dropped by a passerby.

The streets were all but vacant now, a few people running late night errands or returning from work, the occasional vagabond sitting on a darkened stoop. _The Americans are like leeches, capitalists that feed off of the working class, leaving men to starve in the streets._ She remembered the phrase as she passed by such a man, wondering now at the accuracy of such words. It was different in Russia, true, but there were still poor, starving people, huddled together to keep warm, barely surviving from month to month. They had work, but sometimes, the fact meant little.

Irina shook these thoughts from her mind, continuing on her way. There was no point in questioning what she could not change, in trying to truly understand the American ways, already a poison creeping into her mind, slowly shaking loose the doctrines so carefully imbedded there. 

She pulled the door of the store open, relieved it was still in business. Grabbing a basket, one of the red, plastic ones kept by the entrance, she began to scan the aisles. Irina remembered her first time in an American store, much like this one. 

Her superiors had warned her of American luxuries, the wastefulness of American ways. They were soft and careless and weak, as opposed to strong and smart, enduring and Russian. She must not be tempted by what they had, the excess of which they boasted. She had nodded, not worried, not fully comprehending their words. She had not, until that first time in an American supermarket. The shelves were stocked full of food, every single one. How she had marveled at this fact, marveled that there were so many breads, fruits, cheeses, and meats, all here, ready to be bought. No rations, no bread-lines and empty counters, no grim faces, sad shaking of heads. It was all here, so easy, so much of everything. Not just bread but rolls and bagels and English muffins, spectacular nourishment of all descriptions.

She had been shocked, though she did her best to hide the fact. She was Laura now, the American girl, studying literature, to be a professor. She had not met Jack then, not yet. Credentials, a history had to be established first. It would not do for her to stand, gaping at circumstances that seemed perfectly normal to all others but her. Instead she had kept on the calm façade she mastered, walked calmly, pretending to search for something as she observed. They could not even comprehend, she'd realized, how much they had. The thought had entered her mind, and she had permitted herself a small smile. She was strong and Russian and brave, and she would do her patriotic duty, to the memory of Stalin and for the good of all Russia. She had been raised without the excess of American wastefulness, and was all the better for it. This she had thought to herself.

Now the feelings barely registered in her mind as she moved between the aisles, picking up what she knew they needed: eggs, bread, butter, milk. It was easy to forget, Irina thought, though she knew she'd never be able to do so, just as she'd never erase the image of the man, lying dead in a puddle of his own blood, from her mind. 

She brought what she wanted to the check-out, watched as the obviously tired cashier rang up her purchase, paid out the required amount, in cash. Items placed in two brown paper bags, then tied up again in plastic ones. She accepted them, carrying them easily; The bags were light, her muscles strong.

It was a sweet monotony really, the act of buying food in such a store, carrying it home to her husband, the man who loved her unconditionally, who knew her as Laura Bristow. It was always the same, the same basic food, the same basic store, though sometimes she switched one or the other, simply for a change. A monotony that could only last so long, before it would be violently shattered, like glass, a window, a well carved mask. She did not know when or how, not yet.

The key fit perfectly into the keyhole, as it always did, and she entered their house. Nice, fairly spacious, bright and conveniently arranged, large windows open now to accommodate a warm summer breeze. She walked into the kitchen, put the groceries down.

"Where were you?" he asked her, walking in, planting a kiss on her cheek.

"I went to the store. I needed to buy some things" she said, a flawless response, a perfect lie. He nodded, once, twice, not bothering to ask why she felt the need to do so now, when it was so late outside. His Laura was a force to be reckoned with, he knew, and once she set it in her mind to do something she would, regardless of the time. He realized that she would not have done so if he had come home earlier, in time for the dinner he was sure she'd planned and cooked, and which he'd been forced to eat cold, alone. He felt guilty. It was probably her way of telling him she did not appreciate it, though he knew there was nothing he could do. With his line of work, there rarely was. _If only she knew._

Oh, but she did, better than he could ever imagine. She unpacked her purchases calmly, moving with fluid grace as she put them away, smiling and asking him about his day. Nothing to indicate anything was amiss, nothing to show that she had just murdered one of his colleagues, in cold blood, a man whose name she barely knew. Years later, when he finally learned of this, her elaborate charade, he would wonder about it, how she was able to act so well, a wonderful wife, a cold-blooded murder, how he never suspected. She deserved an Oscar, that was for sure.

He returned the grin, told her petty lies as she nodded in turn, listening, knowing all the while that his day, what really happened, was all on the bug, the one in his briefcase she had planted days before, knowing that nothing they said mattered.

He wrapped his arms around her and she felt a pang of guilt, quickly pushing it away. Irina Derevko felt no guilt, for she did what she had to, for her government, for herself. And Laura, Laura had run into an old friend at the store, got caught up in chatting, She had not killed a man, she had nothing to be guilty for.

Irina and Laura, Laura and Irina, it was getting harder and harder to tell them apart. Irina hated the Americans, for their easy lifestyle and because it's what she'd been told. She hated Jack because he worked for the CIA, she felt no guilt for her actions. Laura, on the other hand, loved America, loved it for the freedom it offered, the opportunities it gave. She loved Jack as she'd loved no one before. Her dreams were filled with blood and death, pictures of home and of Stalin, the Russian flag and of knives, still bloody, in her hands. Her subconscious mind was wracked with guilt, and it was all she could do not to let it show.

She succeeded in this task, Irina, Laura, whoever she was, both. Her performance was brilliant, every move calculated, perfectly rendered without another thought. Her two lives were beginning to merge and she was afraid, afraid that the act, the illusion she maintained was becoming more real then the painful truths it had been made to hide. She was becoming too good at it, and soon the treacherous waters of Laura would swallow her whole, and she would not want to go back. 

It was so much easier to be innocent, young and in love, American, happy. Laura was all that Irina was not, could never be. It was a lie, she knew, and all lies must come to an end eventually. Still, she'd hold onto the brittle existence for as long as she could, living the double life: Painful truths and Beautiful lies.


End file.
